as brilliant and gifted as she had been restless and passionate. She
wore her very pearls with arrogance, her very hands were tense with
eager life, her whole being breathed mutiny.

Orth turned abruptly to Blanche, who had transferred her attention to
the picture.

"What a tragedy is there!" he exclaimed, with a fierce attempt at
lightness. "Think of a woman having all that pent up within her two
centuries ago! And at the mercy of a stupid family, no doubt, and a
still stupider husband. No wonder--To-day, a woman like that might not
be a model for all the virtues, but she certainly would use her gifts
and become famous, the while living her life too fully to have any place
in it for yeomen and such, or even for the trivial business of breaking
hearts." He put his finger under Blanche's chin, and raised her face,
but he could not compel her gaze. "You are the exact image of that
little girl," he said, "except that you are even purer and finer. She
had no chance, none whatever. You live in the woman's age. Your
opportunities will be infinite. I shall see to it that they are. What
you wish to be you shall be. There will be no pent-up energies here to
burst out into disaster for yourself and others. You shall be trained to
self-control--that is, if you ever develop self-will, dear child--every
faculty shall be educated, every school of life you desire knowledge
through shall be opened to you. You shall become that finest flower of
civilization, a woman who knows how to use her independence."

She raised her eyes slowly, and gave him a look which stirred the roots
of sensation--a long look of unspeakable melancholy. Her chest rose
once; then she set her lips tightly, and dropped her eyes.